


All My Favourites

by FestiveFerret



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Adventure, But sadish middle, Carton (get it?), Get Together, Gretchen stop trying to make “Carton” happen it’s not going to happen, Happy Ending, M/M, Missions, Pining, Romance, Sexual Content, So don't ask me when this happened, Timeline is a wibbly wobbly thing, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 21:25:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10369794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/pseuds/FestiveFerret
Summary: It was one of Clint’s favourite missions.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashes0909](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashes0909/gifts).



> Thanks to ashes for the beta (and the bunny) ((and everything)).
> 
> This one is for you!

It was one of Clint’s favourite missions.

He would have loved it even if he didn’t get to spend the entire evening grinding on the dance floor with sweaty, beautiful people. But that was pretty great too.

The music pounded loudly enough that he could feel the beat up through his feet and into his chest. He was a few drinks in, and a little tipsy, but he still could have shot an apple core off the DJ’s head without hesitation. Using his second best bow. And with one hand down this guy’s pants.

The guy in question was not quite as in control of his faculties as Clint was, but he was definitely having a good time. His asymmetrical, mesh shirt was probably some kind of $300 high fashion piece, but all Clint could think of was Lady Gaga, which was making it hard not to smile inappropriately **.** He didn’t seem to notice that at least a quarter of Clint’s attention was fixed on the VIP balcony above the bar, since all of his own attention was on Clint’s body.

Clint had already been here for hours waiting for his mark to show and he’d been through several dance partners in that time, but this guy had stuck around the longest. Clint felt vaguely sorry that Lady Gaga was putting in all this effort and he wouldn't be getting lucky, but the crowded dance floor was the best vantage point for the VIP lounge, and a guy grinding out here with a handsy partner would never catch someone’s eye. As Nat liked to say, “public displays of affection make people uncomfortable.” All eyes were sliding right over them as if they weren’t there.

Today Clint’s only job was to blend in and call a code when the target showed, depending on what kind of security he’d brought with him. They only needed his eyes today, not his hands - Nat’s team was on clean-up. There were two positives to that: he got to get drunk on SHIELD’s dime, and he got to go home first.

He may have over-extrapolated from Coulson’s, “feel free to have a few drinks to fit in,” to, “if you love your country, you’ll get sloshed or risk this op,” but he knew his handler well enough now that he could read between the lines.

“Movement on 4,” Coulson’s voice murmured into his ear.

He scanned the room as he spun, his gifted eyes taking in hundreds of pieces of information between one breath and the next. The target had just slipped into the club. Clint swayed to the music and flicked his eyes over to the corner of the large room one more time, confirming. He wrapped his arms around Lady Gaga’s neck and flashed two fingers towards the lone, crappy security camera in the corner. Coulson’s muttered affirmative came almost instantly.

A flicker of red hair disappeared behind the bar and Clint’s job was over. Nat had the rest under control. Now all he had to do was extract his own drunk ass from this club and let Coulson pour him back into his room at SHIELD. He pulled Gaga closer, feeling it was rude not to finish out the song, and glanced over his shoulder to wink at the camera. Coulson’s soft laugh filled his ear, and he grinned back. The day he couldn’t get his handler to smile would be the day Phil Coulson had been replaced by a skrull.

When the song was over he pressed a kiss to Lady Gaga’s cheek, thanked him for the dance and slipped off the floor. He didn’t have to wait out back for long before a completely forgettable black SUV rolled up, the locks clicking open as it came to a stop.

Clint pulled open the door and clambered up into the seat. “Evening, Sir!”

Coulson eyed him suspiciously. “I believe I said ‘a few drinks,’ Barton.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Clint shot him a winning smile. “I am 100% perfectly sober, as always. Ask me to shoot something.”

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “I think I know better than anyone that, if anything, you shoot better while drunk. That’s a terrible sobriety test. If I really wanted to know, I’d make you read your disciplinary actions folder without giggling.”

“Sir.” Clint put an offended hand on his chest. “I do _not_ giggle.”

Coulson pulled out his phone at the next red light and flipped through it quickly, handing it to Clint before the light changed and he pulled into traffic again. Clint looked down at the phone, it was open to a report Coulson must have been working on while he waited for Clint to finish in the club. He scanned it quickly until a line popped out.

_...recommend including Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff in the secondary pre-mission meeting as well, as they spent the entire primary meeting giggling together._

Clint’s jaw dropped open. “Are you telling me that we wouldn’t have to go to the secondary meetings if we paid attention in the primaries?”

“If I said yes, would you pay attention in primaries?”

Clint thought about it for a moment. “No, probably not. To be honest, Sir, we don’t pay any attention in the secondaries either.”

A small smile teased the edges of Coulson’s mouth.Goddamn, he was so beautiful whenever he let that cool spook exterior slip open. Whether for good or ill, Clint had somehow made it his perpetual side mission to put a crack in that shell at least once a day, and it made his heart skip a beat every time he succeeded.

The car stilled and Coulson shot a glance at Clint, his brow creasing slightly at whatever he was able to read in Clint’s face. “We’re here,” he said softly. Clint looked out and saw Coulson had pulled around the back of the SHIELD barracks to save his inebriated feet a staircase and several hallways getting back to his room.

It took Clint three tries to get the door open, the shape of the handle temporarily thwarting his pickled brain. When it finally clicked, he smiled triumphantly at Coulson and - very gracefully - tripped out of the car. “Night, Sir.” He shot him a mocking salute.

Coulson smiled back, fully this time, and tipped his head against the headrest to watch Clint make a fool of himself. “Goodnight, Clint.”

And that, right there, was why it was one of his favourite missions.

**

This mission wasn’t going quite as well.

If he’d been paying attention in the primary op meeting (or in the two secondaries Coulson had made him attend in retribution for the drinking), he probably would have protested the whole “underwater base” thing. But he’d made his bed and now he was probably going to have drown in it.

The water sloshed around his thighs as he poked at the console, the dead security officer’s body floating ominously nearby.

“Barton.” Coulson sounded like shit.

“Still nothing, Sir.” Clint inwardly cursed this damn mission again, as he tried a few more buttons at random. He was a sniper. He should be on a rooftop somewhere, high up and safe. Not _at the bottom of the ocean_ with his shoes full of fishy, saltwater. It was the exact opposite of his comfort zone.

The dead body swirled around with the rising water, bumping its feet into Clint’s hip and making him wince. “Oh for fuck’s sa- This is your fault you know.” He pointed an accusatory finger at it. “You could have just surrendered like a champ, but no, you had to flood the room like a major asshole. You died anyway, you didn’t have to take me with you. Fuck you.”

 _“ Barton.”_ Coulson was definitely on his last nerve.

“I’m _fucking trying,_ Sir. There’s nothing here.” He hit the last couple buttons he hadn’t yet tried, but the water kept rushing in. “Hydra is not known for their failsafes. They probably think if you hit the big, red, self-destruct button by accident, you deserve to die. I can’t turn this off.”

Coulson made an exasperated noise which cut off abruptly as his mic muted which left Clint alone, save for the not-too-chatty Mr. Corpse. He cast his eye around the room again, searching for any hint at an escape route.

There was only one way into, and out of, the security room - through the big bay doors on his left. The small space was mostly filled with consoles and screens. Air was piped in through a line of vents but they were all too small to fit a person and filled with endless rows of filters anyway. Even if one of them had been big enough, it would take too long to break through.

The water was rising pretty rapidly. The room was small and the doors were airtight. At least it was all contained - he’d drown in here for sure, but the rest of the team would be safe until evac as long as those doors stayed closed. There was no way out that wouldn’t flood the rest of the base.

It was weird having time to think about dying. He always assumed he’d get shot in the head, or fall off a building or something. Something quick and painful.

The water licked up under his shirt and the shock of its icey-cold on the fresh strip of skin punched the breath out of his lungs. He took short, sharp breaths, hopping on his toes, and tried to adjust, like a kid sliding into a pool too early in Spring.

Panic threatened to rise along with the water, but years of experience handling stressful situations allowed him to push it down again.

He also tried to resist the urge to get all mopey and morbid, but there were some things he wished he’d had the chance to say and they kept forcing their way into his mind.

He should have told Nat she was his best friend, even though she probably would have smacked him for it. He hoped she knew it.

He should have told Fury to fuck off more often. That was always fun.

He probably should have told Coulson he was in love with him.

There was a click as Coulson’s mic came back on. Clint opened his mouth, wanting to say something before he chickened out. “Ph-”

“Barton, get to the doors. Now,” Coulson snapped out.

“Sir, you can’t open them, the whole base will flood.”

“Get to the doors. Now.” For all his tendency towards casual insubordination, Clint trusted Coulson without reservation. He immediately started sloshing through the water towards the doors.

“Sir,” he called out, resting a palm against the rough metal of the large doors.

There was a moment of silence, then, “keep me posted on the water level.”

“Belly button,” he replied, disappointed that he’d missed his chance to say “dick-level” over the comm.

Clint could feel Coulson vibrating tension down the line, but he stayed silent. Over the next five minutes, Clint called out the ever-rising level of the water. He kept hearing the click of Coulson’s mic being switched on and off, but he didn’t speak. Then Clint announced, “neck,” and he heard Coulson start to say, “fuc-” before the click.

And that was when the panic really hit. If Coulson couldn’t keep his cool, neither could Clint. “Um, Sir? Is there some kind of plan I should be aware of? Or should I be telling you that I’d like to leave my very extensive porn collection to Fury. I’m sure he’ll treasure it as a fond memory of me. Maybe get some of it framed, hang it in his office - ”

“We’re going to blow the doors,” Coulson suddenly spoke up. “Everyone will make their way to the west airlock. Evac is on its way.”

Clint did some quick math in his head. There was no way evac was closer than ten minutes out. In ten minutes the whole base could easily be flooded. He pulled a soggy arm out of the water and tapped his earpiece to switch to a private line. “How far out?”

Coulson ignored him. “On my command, Harper. Back up, Barton.”

Clint scrambled off to the side, half walking, half-swimming. He pressed his back against the wall and clapped his hands over his ears. Blowing out your eardrums was never fun.

The team checked in, one by one, and Coulson called it. There was a breath of pause and then a mighty explosion. The shockwave vibrated through the water, knocking Clint’s stance unsteady. The doors flew off the hinges and the water immediately poured out into the hall.

The rush pulled Clint off his feet and out the doors. He smacked his side painfully against the wall as the water rushed him along. Then a hand wrapped around his wrist and jerked him to the side. He clung to it, climbing up the attached arm to find its owner. It turned out to belong to Agent Harper - this team’s version of Nat, and their op lead. She was small and lithe, but extremely agile. She clipped a belay hook through his tac belt so they wouldn’t get separated and began working her way along the wall, Clint following behind.

The water rushed in rapidly, but by staying flat against the wall they managed to avoid the worst of the current. At first, the water level was dramatically lower, but the base was small and most of the doors were locked shut so the water reached the opposite end of the tunnel of hallways quickly and started to rise again.

By the time they all sloshed their way to the west airlock, the water was already up to their thighs. Clint tapped his earpiece again, reconnecting to the group line. “How far out, Sir?”

This time Coulson answered. “Seven minutes.”

As one the team glanced down at the rising water, each doing the math in their heads.

“It’s tight, but we can all fit in the airlock. If we go in and drain it, we can wait in there,” Jones suggested. Harper nodded and he reached out and smacked the button to open the airlock.

Nothing happened.

They all shared a worried glance. He tried it again - still nothing. Duffy, the tech expert on the crew, stepped forward and pulled open a panel. He poked away for a moment frowning. The water continued to pour in. Clint was adjusted to the cold, but he noticed the other team members startling and gasping as it worked its way up their bodies.

Duffy stepped back. “The water pressure is too great. It won’t open while the base is flooded.”

The team members each shared their favourite expletive.

Harper spoke up, “I have one charge left. The airlock obviously won’t work if we blow the door, but we could blow a window and swim to the sub.”

Coulson’s voice filled their ears. “By my calculations, if you can wait until it would be 1 minute, 45 seconds to dock, you should be able to swim to Airlock One in time.”

Harper nodded. “Okay. We lay the charge and wait as long as we can to blow it.” She started feeding out the line of rope from her tac belt. “We’ll all hook together so no one gets left behind. The strongest swimmers can help the others.”

They started organizing themselves, Harper at the front, Jones at the back. Clint was second in from the end. The belay clips locked their belts to each other in a line. It was both comforting and terrifying - if he passed out they would drag him to safety, but if one of the others did, he’d have to drag dead weight behind him to the sub. He was a strong swimmer, but it wasn’t one of the skills he focused on maintaining.

Which is again why he should have protested the whole _under-fucking-water_ thing.

You could bet he and Coulson would be having words if he made it back up to the Quinjet. Coulson himself had fallen mostly quiet again, only giving the occasional update on the sub. The team sloshed through the rapidly rising water, looking for the best porthole to blow out. The three small bunks were shut and locked, only openable with a special key card. Even if they had time to find a card on one of the crew member’s bodies, there was no guarantee the electronics would still work in the flood.

The only way to open the doors would be to blow them, and they needed their single charge for the window. It was infuriating because the amount of time opening those three rooms would gain them could be the difference between life and death, but losing the time it would take to find the key cards would be certain death if it didn’t work.

The larger porthole in the lab area turned out to be their best bet. The size would make it easier to break and they would definitely all fit through, even the broad-shouldered Garcia. The water was up to Clint’s chest already, and Harper was standing on her toes, her neck already being licked at by little waves as she walked.

She pressed the charge to the clear plastic of the window. The light shining out from inside the base illuminated an eerie group of dark fish as they slithered past. “Four minutes,” Coulson informed them, and they shared a worried look. The water would likely be over their heads in another minute and by the 2-minute mark they wouldn’t have any space left to breathe. They’d have 15 seconds to wait, underwater, to blow the charge and then a swim to the sub which would take at least a few minutes.

It wasn’t encouraging. If they blew the window early they could take a big breath before and swim right away, but compared to the sub, they moved very slowly and it would be a much longer swim, the earlier they left.

The clock ticked on and the water rose. Soon they all clambered up on the lab table, their shoulders pressing against the low ceiling of the room, holding onto those last few inches of air space.

Coulson had just called, “2 minutes,” when the water started sloshing up against the ceiling, making it hard to catch a full breath. Harper held up three fingers and they all took the biggest breath they could, then wrapped around each other, forming a tight ball together, submerged underwater.

Clint felt a surge of adrenaline - and with it the need to suck in a breath - but he willed his heart rate to slow, cycling the air in his lungs into his mouth, then back into his lungs to trick his body into calming.

He counted to three and tensed. Again, there was a second of terrifying stillness and then the charge went off. A horrible pain lit up across his hips and his arm nearly tore out of its socket as it was yanked to the side. He peered through the murky water. Jones - who had been tucked against him in the huddle - was knocked off the table by the blast, almost ripping off the arm Clint had looped through his.

The team scrambled to right themselves, needing to get out the door and to the sub as quickly as possible. Clint tried to get his feet under him, but Jones was still under the table and the tension on the line was making it impossible.

He tugged a few times, feeling panicky, then gripped the edge of the table and swung his head around it. Jones was pulling furiously, but ineffectively, at his foot which was stuck under the bracing bar welded to the table legs. Clint gave his line a tug on the other side and the team members pressed closer, giving him slack. He curled around under the table, ripped Jones’ shoelaces open and pulled on his ankle.

The foot gave way suddenly - slipping out of the boot - and Clint smacked his wrist hard on the sharp edge of the metal table. Blood trickled out and floated eerily in the dark water. He grabbed the line and hauled Jones out from under the table, a few desperate bubbles leaking out of his mouth with the effort.

His lungs were already burning, but he ignored it, focusing on pressing forward. As a group they swam hard, kicking furiously, the line taut between them. The sub looked impossibly far away, but it kept chugging on towards them as quickly as it could. Clint’s body was screaming for air, all his instincts begging him to open his mouth and _just. Breathe. IN._

Harper reached the airlock door first and pushed the button. It slid open immediately and she swum in, grabbing the railing inside and hauling on the line to draw the rest of them in faster.

Jones pulled the heavy door shut behind him and the second it clicked into place Harper slammed her palm against the large, green button. The water started to drain and they all pressed against the chamber’s curved ceiling, sucking in grateful oxygen as soon as the system piped it in.

It took less than a minute to fully drain the chamber. When the chime sounded, letting them know the inner door was unlocked, no one moved for a long time. They just lay, sprawled in various states of disarray, across the small space, no one able to do more than be deeply, deeply thankful for air.

As soon as they finally stumbled through the inner door, the sub began to move, cutting through the water as it rose. Out of a porthole Clint could see the massive column of bubbles drifting up from the base as the water pressed the very last of the air out of the ventilation system.

The sub broke the surface and the pilot popped open the top, The quinjet was already hovering overhead and one by one the team climbed up the ladder, until they all stood, dripping and panting on the ramp.

All at once, the others seemed to come to their senses and spread out along the jet, pulling out go-bags with towels and changes of clothes. Clint pushed past them to the front of the jet, leaving a wet trail behind him.

“You know, Sir, if you want to get rid of me, there are easier ways,” he joked, smirking at the side of Coulson’s head. His handler’s lips tensed, instead of curling up, and he flicked his eyes up towards Clint and then back down to the screens in front of him.

“Go get cleaned up, Barton.” He sounded _horrible_. And cold. The humor Clint usually set dancing in his eyes was nowhere to be seen. His knuckles were white where they gripped the arms of his chair, his jaw was set and all his attention was zeroed in on the information that scrolled by.

They had a routine: Coulson would send his team in, Clint would get a little blown up, he’d come back, they’d joke about it, Coulson would roll his eyes, and Clint would fall a little more in love with him.

This wasn’t Coulson, this wasn’t how this should go. He was radiating anger and frustration and ignoring Clint with such fierceness that eventually he could do nothing but give up and walk away, having no idea what else he could say.

The rest of the ride home was quiet, tense and unpleasant. Jones kept coughing up water and had a distinctly green look about him. As soon as they landed, medics swarmed the quinjet, ignoring all protestations and bustled everyone into HQ.

Clint was still reeling a little from Coulson’s brush-off when he staggered out of Medical two hours later, covered in fretful gauze. There wasn’t much they could do for near-drowning and generally banged to shit, but they sure tried. He started picking it off his wrist before he even made it to the elevator. When he pushed open the door to his quarters, Nat was sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring down at her phone.

“I should have been there,” she said, without looking up.

“No fucking kidding.” Clint collapsed onto the bed next to her, wincing when his sore hip hit the mattress.

Nat’s eyes finally flicked up, taking him in. She reached out and brushed gentle fingers through his hair. _"You can’t die on_ me, _”_ she murmured in Russian.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he replied petulantly. “I’ll die if I want to. I’m thinking maybe right about now.” He groaned into his pillow, trying to find a position that didn’t make everything hurt.

“Well, at least it won’t be a problem from now on. For the next mission we’ll be out together and I can protect your useless ass from being drowned.”

“What do you mean?” Clint asked the pillow, knowing Nat would find words amongst the muffled noises.

“The transfer,” she stated, matter-of-fact.

Clint shot up, each cut and bruise protesting the sudden movement. “What transfer? Are they putting you on Coulson’s team? Nice.”

Nat raised an eyebrow then handed her phone over. Clint skimmed the open email. “What the fuck?! Sitwell? Nat, what in the royal fuck?! I have been on Coulson’s team since I joined SHIELD. He told Fury I shouldn’t work with anyone else. Why would they transfer _me?_  I don’t get it.”

Nat regarded him carefully for a long moment. “Do you think maybe it’s a punishment?”

“For what?! For once this wasn’t my fault.”

“Not punishment for you, _zaychik._ For Coulson.”

Clint stared at her, opening and closing his mouth a few times. “But...it wasn’t his fault either. I - “ Nat was looking sympathetic which was the last thing he wanted from her. “This is messed up, where is he? I’m going to sort this out.” He tried to stand but Nat’s firm hand hit his chest.

“Don’t you dare. You sleep first. Nothing will change between now and tomorrow morning.”

Clint thought about fighting it, but she was right and he was tired. “Okay, whatever.” He curled back onto the bed and held up his arm invitingly. “You have to stay though.”

Nat sighed, but didn’t hesitate to climb in and slide under his arm, tucking her back against his chest. He could hear her tapping away on her phone, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and nestled his face between her warm shoulderblades. Within minutes he had drifted off to sleep.

Nat was still there when he woke, but she was deeply asleep so he tiptoed around his room, pulling on fresh clothes before slipping silently out the door. It was only 6:30 in the morning, but Coulson’s day usually started quite a bit earlier than that so Clint was confident he could catch him.

He didn’t expect to literally run into him three halls away from his office. Coulson bounced off his chest, frowned, then blanched when his eyes hit Clint’s face.

“What the hell, Sir?” Clint growled out immediately.

Coulson’s eyes darted around the hall, but it was empty. He started walking towards the elevator and Clint matched his stride.

“What did I do?” he tried again. “We didn’t know about the flooding, that wasn’t my fault.”

“I didn’t have you transferred because of Aquarius. _I_ didn’t have you transferred at all, it was Fury’s call,” Coulson hissed out, not meeting Clint’s eyes.

“Oh yeah?” Clint skidded around him and slung an arm across the elevator doors so Coulson couldn’t advance. “Okay, so you’re telling me if you’d asked to keep me, Fury would have said no? It doesn’t matter if you sent me away, or let me be taken, you still - “

“Barton.” His gaze finally snapped up to Clint’s and his eyes were so cold Clint cut off abruptly. “I have a meeting.” He pressed forward and Clint stepped aside automatically, still in shock. Coulson marched onto the elevator and hit a button. He frowned at his shoes as the doors closed, but just before they shut, he flicked his eyes up to Clint’s. The ice had disappeared, replaced with something terribly sad, and then he was gone.

“What the fuck?” Clint asked the closed elevator doors.

**

The next three months were fine, but disappointing. Working with Nat was great, they were part of a kickass team and, for the most part, Sitwell ran a good op. The disappointing part was that Clint made zero headway with Coulson. He never seemed to run into him and Coulson made absolutely no attempt to contact him.

This team was busy and did a lot of out-of-town ops so he wasn’t around the barracks much anyway, but he found that most of the time, he didn’t even know if Coulson was in the same building or if he’d been carted off to South Africa, or something. Clint considered cornering him in his office a few times, but never managed to bite the bullet and do it. He didn’t even know what he would say.

After four years of bantering over comms, arguing in primaries and defying orders, he always thought they were something like friends, but clearly Coulson disagreed.

About two months after Aquarius, Clint had the sudden, heart-stopping thought that Coulson may have figured out about Clint’s crush during that mission and that’s what had sent him packing. Maybe the fear of death-by-fishwater had made Clint babble more than he realized and he’d given something away.

It made sense.

It was awful.

He just wanted that voice in his ear back. Every time the mic clicked on, and it was Sitwell, his heart sank a little deeper.

Nat, at least, was supportive, drawing him into sparring, training, and learning how to properly braid her hair, to keep him out of his funk. He was professional and efficient on missions and their team was a well-oiled machine.

In 90% of his life things were going great. But on the nights when he couldn’t convince Nat to stay and keep him company, and he lay alone in his bed, darkness pressing in around him, he would think about Coulson. About his smile, About the way he called him “Clint” on a few rare occasions. About Haiti and Mumbai and that one time in Pakistan.

And then he would fall asleep and dream about the Aquarius mission, only this time there was no sub and no team and no charge and he’d drown alone in the dark, pressed against the doors that wouldn’t open, with no Coulson in his ear.

He shot awake, panting. He was alone and it took him a moment to remember Nat was away with the rest of the team - Clint was on his rotation out. So far he’d spent his time off feeling sorry for himself and shooting things at the range.

His brain clicked into gear and realized that the sound that had pulled him out of sleep was his phone ringing. He rolled over and swiped it into speakerphone.

“Mm, ‘lo?” he mumbled out.

“Agent Barton?” It was Fury.

“Yes?”

“Sitwell’s op has gone south, I need you in there ASAP.” Fury hung up.

“What?” Clint took a second to fully process the information. If Fury was tapping him in, something must have gone really wrong.

Natasha was on that team.

He shot to his feet, got dressed in record time and grabbed his go-bag. He was out the door in less that five minutes. Dispatch got him a car to where he needed to be, not far out in upstate New York. A casino turned Hydra base.

When he arrived he was shoved unceremoniously into the back of the op van, parked a couple blocks away. Sitwell, Kujawa and a few other agents he didn’t know were sitting in tense silence. Sitwell pointed towards a chair and Clint sat.

He seemed to have arrived in the eye of the hurricane - an argument broke out before his ass even hit the chair. As far as he could tell, several of the unknown agents were from a different team and the two factions couldn’t agree on the best course of action. He managed to pull a few bits of information out.

Apparently, Nat had been found out while undercover and was currently being screamed at by a few Hydra operatives waving guns about. Sitwell wanted Clint up high, with a sniper rifle. The other team seemed to have a different idea. He was just starting to zone out, willing to let those in charge decide what they wanted to do with him (on his day off no less), when a phrase popped out of the din.

“- because you just can’t work like that and Coulson wouldn’t want - “

“Wait, what?” Clint asked, but the others paid no attention, the argument continuing around him. He turned to Agent Kujawa who was sitting at a monitor with headphones on. She looked exhausted and harried, but she had managed to stay out of the heated discussion so far. “Did he say Coulson?”

“Um, yes. Agent Coulson is in there.” She pointed to her screen where he could see heat mapping of the inside of the building. “Romanoff,” she pointed to one red shape, then slid her finger over to another room, another shape. “Coulson.”

“For fucks sake,” Clint hissed to himself. What was a handler doing in an op, why was everyone ignoring him, and why in god’s name had he been dragged out here if no one was going to give him orders anyway?!

A sharp bang pierced through the clamour of voices, so loud Clint could hear it leak out from the headphones Kujawa wore around her neck. Sitwell’s gaze shot to her. She swallowed. “Agent Romanoff’s been shot, Sir.”

“Oh, that is so fucking _it_ ,” Clint bit out, rocketing out of his chair. He snatched up his bow and jumped out of the van, the other agents’ protestations nothing but white noise in back of the blood pounding in his ears.

He took in the street and saw the angles immediately. The building across the street, third floor up, perfect line of sight. He worked backwards in his head from the heat map Kujawa had shown him. The easiest room to get into would be the one Coulson was in, which also meant if he ran into trouble in there, he’d have backup - assuming Coulson was whole and unhurt.

He'd fucking _better_ be whole and unhurt or Clint was going to kill him. This was already shaping up to be one of his least favourite missions of all time. And it wasn't even his mission to hate.

He jogged to the side of the other building and jumped with ease to the fire escape, scrambling up to the third floor. He pushed the fire door open. The hallway was dark and empty - an office building, out of use on a Saturday afternoon. He counted off windows as he walked, eventually picking the door most likely to yield him the correct result and picked the lock.

Perfect. The window would open, and he had a gorgeous line of sight. Coulson was sitting against the wall, framed in the window across from him. It was empty of furniture, but a Hydra guard stood by the door, a surly frown dominating his face.

Clint watched for a moment, docked an arrow and let it fly.

It pierced the guard straight through the throat, killing him silently and efficiently. He still stood for a long, horrible moment, face twisted, then sunk to the floor. Coulson sprang to his feet and went right for window, eyes scanning the view until they caught sight of him. Clint gave a flirty little wave and he could feel Coulson sighing from all the way across the street.

He tapped the buttons on his quiver, pulled another arrow and docked it, sighting along the bow to the bricks above. His laser focus was on his target, but he could see, below, Coulson slide the window open then step back, out of view.

The arrow hit dead on, masonry dust showering down as it embedded deep in the brick, a thin, but unbelievably strong wire trailed out behind it. Clint anchored it at his end, swung his bow over the line and pushed out of the window.

He slid through the window silently, letting one hand go at just the right moment, to land him gracefully on his feet.

He tried to be grateful that Coulson had opened the window - it was loud breaking through and he was still in stealth mode - but it was so much cooler with the spray of breaking glass.

Speaking of Coulson… He turned to find him looking over with a peculiar expression. Clint raised an eyebrow and his handler pointed to the door, then put a finger to his lips. When he stepped up close and listened he could hear several voices speaking German on the other side.

He stepped back and bustled Coulson across the room to the opposite corner.

“So, you going to tell me what the fuck you’re doing in here?” he whispered, a little more harshly than he intended.

Coulson frowned. “I’m not just a paper pusher, you know. I was in the field long before I became your handler.”

“Can’t have been that long, Sir, you don’t look a day over 25,” he quipped back, trying to calm down a little.

Coulson’s face relaxed ever so slightly. “You know, there would actually be _less_ paperwork if I shot you in the leg and shoved you out there to distract them while I made my escape. Fury has a special “Clint Barton Clause” which excuses any friendly-fire related cause for your death or dismemberment.”

It’d be so cool if that were true.

“Don’t tease me, Sir. You know I love it when Fury names things after me.”

He checked the door again, but the conversation on the other side was still in full swing. Clint fell silent again and Coulson didn’t volunteer anything further. They were both carefully avoiding the rather large elephant in the room, but they were also both painfully aware of the other’s avoidance so nothing felt avoided at all. Phil coughed and the elephant trumpeted between them. Finally Clint couldn’t take the awkward silence anymore.

“So, how’s the new team?”

Coulson’s brow creased, his eyes still fixed on his shoes. “Young. I’ve had to use all of Nanny Jo’s tricks. You should see Banks on the naughty step.”

“Is he the - “ Clint patted Banks’ imaginary shoulder a solid two feet above his own.

Coulson nodded.

“Uh, yeah, wow. That’s quite the visual.”

The elephant seemed to be growing larger, pressing up against Clint’s chest and making him squirm. He resisted, though, too stubborn to be the first to broach the awkward subject.

Instead of focusing on the uncomfortable atmosphere in this room, he forced his thoughts over to the almost certainly unpleasant atmosphere three rooms down where Natasha was bleeding out at an indeterminate rate. He was kind of regretting going in without a comm now, at least then Kujawa could have kept an eye on her with the heat scanner and updated him.

There was probably a better way to do this, but he’d never been known for strategic thinking and the only thing he could come up with was to bust out, bow blazing, and hope to shock them all into submission.

“I think I’m going to have to rely on the element of surprise,” he whispered, twirling his bow between his fingers.

“That is not a plan,” Coulson bit back harshly.

Clint smirked. “You’re not my handler, you can’t tell me what to do.”

“There are at least seven Hydra agents out there, you can’t take them all on yourself. I’ve got nothing with me.”

“Well hang back and watch ‘cause someone has to tell all the new junior agents about the stupidest attempt at a rescue ever seen in the history of SHIELD.”

Coulson look distinctly pained at the thought, running a tense hand through his hair. “This is exactly why I had you transferred,” he mumbled, probably mostly to himself, but in the quiet of the empty room, Clint heard him loud and clear.

“So it _was_ you, not ‘Fury,’” Clint replied cooly, the elephant suddenly sitting down hard on his chest.

Phil sighed. “Of course it was me. I know you didn’t believe that.”

“Not that I had a chance to tell you it was bullshit, since you’ve been avoiding me for three months.”

Coulson didn’t deny it. He didn’t speak, just looked at Clint with a disturbing mix of frustration, distress and something else. Amusement?

“Tell me why. Please.” He wasn’t too ashamed to beg. If this was his only chance to talk to Coulson about this he shouldn’t waste it, even with the horrifically bad timing.

His former handler tipped his head back, as if asking the ceiling for help. When none came, his gaze flicked back to Clint’s and he took a deep breath, then spoke in a rush. “It was Aquarius, but it wasn’t you, it was what _I_ did. I made the call to blow those doors, knowing it would flood the base, knowing there was a good chance the airlock door wouldn’t work under those conditions.

“I picked you over the team. I put six people in grave danger, including you, because I knew you were definitely going to die if I didn’t. It was the wrong move, but if given the chance to go back, I wouldn’t change it, and that’s why you can’t be on my team.”

Clint was having trouble absorbing that information. All he could think was, “You lied to me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

Phil shrugged in a surprisingly human way. “I was embarrassed, I guess. I don’t do that.”

“Don’t do..?”

“Become fond of my assets,” he said calmly, straightforward. Clint’s head swirled. He wanted to grab him and scream _,_ _“what the fuck do you mean by fond??”_ but he couldn’t, not here, maybe he wouldn’t be able to anywhere.

“Well, I guess, thanks?” Clint squirmed nervously. “I mean, I am, you know, fond of you too...” The words tumbled out and he cringed. Phil raised an eyebrow in his direction and Clint lost his nerve to press for more information.

“Well then.” He snapped his bow back open. “I’m going to go do super-spy shit.”

Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, okay”

“Is it going to work?” Clint asked him teasingly, trying to get back the feeling they’d had when he first came in.

“You’ve got no comm?”

“Yeah.”

“No active intel?”

“Right.”

“Your bow?”

“Yup.”

“But no other weapons.”

“That’s it, Sir.”

Phil considered him for a moment. “Yeah, it’s probably going to work,” he eventually admitted, the tiniest of smiles finally flirting with the edges of his mouth.

That smile, and the pre-battle surge of adrenaline, made Clint bold and he stepped forward into Coulson’s space. _Fond._

“Phil?” Coulson startled at the sound of his first name, then again when he looked up and realized how close Clint now stood. Clint’s gaze dropped from Coulson’s eyes to his mouth. “Just in case it doesn’t.” He reached out and wrapped his fingers around Coulson’s tie. He tugged gently and Coulson gave in easily, leaning forward into Clint, eyes wide.

The kiss was brief, and simple, but Coulson was warm and present and when Clint pulled back, he watched the other man run his tongue along his bottom lip, seemingly unconsciously. Clint’s heart sang and he couldn’t help grinning as he released Coulson’s tie.

Maybe this mission would be a favourite after all.

Clint shot Coulson a cheeky wink. “Time to die happy, Sir.” Before Coulson could answer, he spun to the door, turned the handle and banged it open as hard as possible.

Someone’s god must have been smiling down on him because the door slammed right into the face of goon number 1, sending him reeling back into the hall. Goons 2 and 3 leapt up from where they’d been leaning against the wall, but Clint notched and released two arrows in rapid succession, sending them both to the floor.

Goon 1 found his feet again before Clint could pull another arrow and slammed into him with a full force rugby tackle. They hit the ground together, rolling around as they each tried to vie for an advantageous position. The Hydra guard pulled a knife from his boot and slashed it across Clint’s back as they tussled. The sudden pain lost Clint his grip and the other man managed to flip on top, pinning Clint to the floor with a heavy hand on his chest. He lifted the knife, ready to bring it down into Clint’s neck, but he hooked his bow under the guard’s elbow and shoved upwards, dislodging him. The guard twisted against the blow and dropped the knife.

Clint slammed the heel of his hand up into his nose and he reeled back, off Clint’s chest. He wasn’t down for long, but Clint cast around until his fingers closed over the blade of the knife, he rolled over, letting the knife go as his arm snapped over his side.

There was a sickening squelch and it embedded itself in the goon’s chest, all the way up to the handle. He hit the ground and Clint left him gurgling on the floor as he took off down the hall. He didn’t bother to check on Coulson - the man could handle himself - just booked it three doors down to where Natasha was being held.

He slammed into the door full force again, but had no luck this time - the only guard was lounging on the other side of the room. He held a gun, but it barely made it to waist height before Clint’s arrow pinned him to the far wall.

Nat was crouched in the corner, both hands pressed over her thigh. She looked pale but fully conscious, and the amount of blood pooled under her was upsetting but not dangerous.

She smiled when she saw him. “My hero.”

He crossed the room and bent down. “Ha. You joke, but you owe me one now.”

She peeled her hands back so he could look at the wound. “This just means you owe me one fewer, _zaychik.”_ The bullet had gone straight through and miraculously avoided both artery and bone, but it was still an unhappily gaping wound and she’d been bleeding for a while.

She’d already wrapped a strip of fabric around her thigh so there wasn’t much more he could do without a med kit. He slipped an arm under hers and helped haul her up to her feet. Or foot at least. She hopped a bit, wincing when she touched the ground, but eventually tucked solidly into Clint’s grip and they made their way to the door.

Coulson was nowhere in sight, and Clint could only hope he’d made it out already. They stumbled down the hallway and to the stairs. Nat slid more than walked, but they hit the bottom floor together without incident and pushed through the double doors to the lobby.

There were two Hydra agents standing by the old disused slot machines and they turned and started screaming as soon as Nat and Clint entered the room. Clint moved automatically, swinging the bow arm he had tucked around Natasha up and into place. The movement pressed Nat against his chest and she immediately dropped her hands around his waist and tucked her face in, staying out of his way. He docked an arrow around her shoulders and let it fly - the first man’s screaming was silenced.

Before he could raise it again, there was a click and a shot rang out. The bullet embedded itself in the drywall behind them, spraying up a cloud of dust. The man continued to scream in German, waving the gun threateningly. Clint lowered his bow slowly. He was fast, but not that fast. The guard could easily have shot them - probably get a two for one with Nat cuddled up against him like this - but he had some reason for wanting to keep them alive, so he’d have to work with that.

The man calmed a little when Clint dropped the bow, but still kept the gun trained on them. Clint hooked his arm under Nat’s armpit and slowly drew her back out so he could support her better. She eyed up the Hydra agent and scoffed. Clint smiled - that was his Nat.

He gestured to the side with the gun, pushing the two spies away from the door. Clint began a slow shuffle, scanning the room for alternate exits, but the man started yelling again and waving the gun.

“I don’t speak German!” he shot back in frustration. There was a small noise to Clint’s left, but he kept his eyes on the man with the gun, his sensitive hearing straining to follow the sound, without luck.

And then, “Hi there,” a familiar, soft voice called out. The Hydra agent spun and blanched when he realized he was looking down the barrel of a gigantic, red, glowing, _bizarre-looking,_ handheld cannon...thing.

Coulson smiled, then fired.

A blast of energy shot out of the gun and ignited the whole room. The man was obliterated, his ashes hitting the far wall of the room. Heat washed over Clint and he turned away from it, tucking Nat’s face into his chest. When the heat and light faded again he straightened cautiously.

“Nice timing, Sir,” he called out. Coulson just nodded, then hurried over to help Nat on the other side. “What is that thing?”

“It’s the mission. And the reason why I’m here. Some hinky alien tech. Nat was going in as a buyer, I was her authenticator since I actually know a little bit about this stuff.”

“Well, I’m impressed you knew how to use it, Sir.”

“I didn’t. I guessed.”

Natasha laughed and Clint couldn’t help but smile. Coulson fell silent as they bustled Nat out of the casino, supported between the two of them. Despite being completely useless on this mission, Sitwell had called in more support and a large SHIELD medic van was waiting for them when they crossed the street.

The medics strapped Natasha up and loaded her in. Clint could see Sitwell marching across the asphalt towards him, eyes blazing, so he quickly climbed in after her and shut the door. He only realized as they were pulling away that he had lost track of Coulson again.

The medics started on Nat on the ride back and by the time they pulled in at SHIELD HQ she was already mostly put back together. They stitched her up - no need for surgery - and got her on a saline drip. They assured Clint that all she would need is a blood transfusion and time to heal. When they wheeled her off he tried to follow, but she shooed him away.

“I’m fine, don’t make a fuss. You smell awful. Go get cleaned up. Come entertain me tomorrow.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she gave him a stern look and he tossed up his hands in defeat and watched as she disappeared around the corner. He started to scurry back to his room, but before he could escape Medical he got snagged by a worried looking intern who insisted on treating his minor burns and cuts, despite his insistence that it was just a little singeing and that he would be fine.

The intern was replaced a few minutes later by a surly looking medic who had the air of someone who had given up on making agents listen to her a long time ago. She took a few vitals for his chart then waved him off.

Clint stood and made it as far as the doorway before the medic coughed pointedly. He spun around shuffling backwards towards the door as he spoke. “What now?”

“You didn’t mention that cut on your back. It should be treated.”

“I can’t even feel it. It’s fine,” he assured her, managing to get half his body through the doorway.

“It’s too large to be ignored.” The medic gave him a stern look.

Clint had barely gotten out, “that’s what she sa-” when a hand circled his bicep and yanked him fully out into the hallway. It was Coulson.

“Whoa, Sir. Damaged goods here.”

Coulson rolled his eyes. “You expect me to believe you weren’t just trying to convince the SHIELD medics of the exact opposite?”

Clint shrugged. “I’m fickle.”

“Yes, you are. We need to talk.”

“Okay.”

Coulson stayed silent, staring at him oddly. Clint was deeply distracted by the fact that Coulson’s hand hadn’t moved from his arm.

He stared back, attempting to read Coulson’s mind, without luck. Normally his handler would just order him up to his office, but there was a new kind of tension in his jaw and an uncharacteristic twitchiness around his eyes. Maybe he’d be more comfortable talking about this somewhere less official. “Come to my room?” Clint tried.

“Yeah.”

Coulson set off, without waiting to see if Clint would follow, marching briskly for the elevators. Clint rushed to keep up. Both stayed quiet for the ride down to the barracks level. Clint fumbled with the door and stumbled inside, Coulson followed after, then swung the door closed behind him.

There was a long moment of tense silence while Clint waited for Coulson to start, but he just gave him that odd look again.

Finally, Clint couldn’t take it anymore. “Look, I just - “

“I’ve never - “ Coulson started at the same time and they both cut off.

Clint chuckled. “You go ahead, Sir.” He leaned back against his dresser, trying to exude a calm he didn’t feel.

Coulson took a deep breath. “I’ve never thought about you that way before.”

Clint’s heart sank into his stomach, but It wasn’t exactly surprising. It seemed like “fond” just meant “friendly” after all.

“I understand, Sir. I shouldn’t have done that. - “

“But then you kissed me and it made me wonder about what - ”

“ - heat of the moment, you understand.“

“- it meant that you always came first to me - “

“I can’t really help that I’ve been - “

“I wish you - ”

“- in love with you for four years -”

“- would just listen!”

Clint’s mouth snapped shut.

Coulson’s fell open. “What?” he gasped out.

“What?” Clint asked back, genuinely confused.

“In love with me for _four years?_ How did I not know?” Coulson sounded genuinely distressed and Clint swallowed, nervousness flooding his stomach with acid.

“Well, you must not be as smart as you think you are, Sir,” he quipped, covering his disappointment. “I haven’t been particularly subtle.” He hurried on before Coulson could say anything else. “But it’s fine, really. I’m not a fourteen-year-old girl, I get it. We can still work together.”

Coulson smiled and some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. “The unicorn doodles on your notebook would suggest otherwise. And I’m not worried about us being able to work together. You really do need to work on your listening skills, Barton. I said I’ve never thought of you that way _before._ But then you kissed me. I spent the whole ride back thinking about it. I can’t _stop_ thinking about it. About you. About what you clearly mean to me, I just never realized.”

“Well, fuck me,” Clint breathed out, genuinely stunned, glad he was supported by the dresser behind him.

Coulson grinned. “Can I kiss you again first?”

“Um,” was all Clint managed to get out. His heart started to race. Sure, he’d thought about this, fantasized even, but Coulson was really here, now. Asking. He clearly saw the hesitation in Clint’s face because his grin softened, and he stepped back to sit lightly on the edge of Clint’s bed.

Clint was having a minor panic attack. After four years of hopeless pining could the real thing even live up to it? Was it worth it? Did he even actually _want_ this anymore, or was it just the remnants of a junior agent’s crush he’d never bothered to dispense with? The lack of anyone else around here worth crushing on certainly didn’t help.

Being in unrequited love with Coulson was just part of who he was. And Coulson straight up admitted he’d never thought about this before. What did that mean? Can you casually try something out when you’ve been unhealthily obsessed for that long?

“Clint.” His voice was calm, gentle. “What are you thinking about?”

“Panicking, mostly,” Clint replied honestly.

“I can leave. Let you think about it?” Coulson stood and took a tentative step towards the door, and Clint. Clint looked up and their eyes met.

And suddenly none of it mattered at all.

It was _Phil_ for fucks sake. Of course it was worth it. Of course he still wanted it. “Of course you can kiss me.”

He stretched a hand out towards Phil’s arm, but left it hovering, waiting. Phil stepped forward, pressing into his hand, leaning into the grip. His fingers wrapped around smooth, strong muscle and he reeled him in until they were nose-to-nose. He could feel the heat of Phil’s breath. Their eyes stayed locked for a second and then Clint let his drift shut, closing the last of the distance between them and pressing their lips together.

And it wasn’t like any of the thousands of fantasies he’d had about this moment. Phil didn’t feel, or taste, or move like he expected.

It was so much better.

Phil braced his hands against the dresser behind Clint, pressing forward so they could feel the shape of each other. Clint was willing to take it slow, start with a chaste press of lips, but Phil pushed, asking for more.

Clint’s hands slipped between them to cup Phil’s jaw then tipped his chin gently into the perfect angle to deepen the kiss. Mouths fell open, tongues sliding together. Phil sucked Clint’s bottom lip in between his own, making him moan.   

Phil shifted against him until he could slide his thigh between Clint’s. He could feel a new urgency building in the little space that remained between them. Phil’s fingers began an eager dance up his sides and over his chest. Those hands he’d wanted for so long wanting him back was going to send him over the edge before they’d even taken any clothes off. Phil ran his palms back down again and gripped his hips, hard. Clint whimpered.

“I - Can I - ?” Phil stuttered out between kisses.

Clint grinned against his mouth. “Whatever you want, Sir.”

Phil’s cheeks reddened at the honorific, tipping his forehead against Clint’s to catch his breath. “Maybe save that for the office.” His voice was strained.

“Not into the power dynamics?” Clint chuckled.

Phil worked a line of kisses down his neck, then buried his nose into the place where Clint’s neck and shoulder met and breathed in. “It’s not that. I’m a grown man. I need to be able to get through a meeting at work without embarrassing myself.”

“Ahh, like it a bit too much, _Phil_.” Clint kicked his hips forward, grinding his obvious erection against Phil’s groin.

Phil let out a hard breath. “Shit, that doesn’t really help much, does it?”

His hands suddenly dropped to Clint’s belt. He gripped the buckle between his fingers and flicked his eyes up. Clint swallowed hard and nodded, summoning all his willpower to keep from rutting shamelessly against the pressure of Phil’s hands. He made short work of the belt, button, and zipper, and pushed Clint’s pants open.

When Phil dropped to his knees, Clint’s hands snapped to the edge of the dresser, squeezing until the cheap particle board protested his grip.

“You don’t have to...” He trailed off as Phil pulled him out and licked a teasing line from the base of his cock to the tip. “Fuuck..”

Phil smiled, then wrapped his lips around and slid down, all soft, wet heat. And _oh god_  it had been so long, and it felt so good and _it was Phil._ He wanted to touch that beautiful face, trace those lips with his fingertip, but he was afraid if he let go of the dresser, he’d fall to the floor.

 _Hot damn_ Phil knew what he was doing - any reservations he’d had about Clint certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he had a dick. Phil sucked his cheeks in as he pulled back and ran his tongue along the sensitive underside as he slipped back down. It was slow but sinful, and before long Clint was having trouble breathing without moaning, his knuckles white, knees locked to keep him standing.

He had the urge to close his eyes, to clench everything against the tension building in his gut, but he forced them to stay open. He didn’t want to miss a second of those lips wrapped around his cock, or those hands - one splayed out his hip, one following along in the movement of his mouth.

Phil’s eyes flicked up to meet his and Clint lost it.

His orgasm broke hard, without warning, rippling through him until he bent forward over Phil, gasping. Phil didn’t move, letting Clint pulse in his mouth, then swallowed, swirling his tongue around once more, setting off aftershocks like firecrackers in Clint’s core.

Phil slid back up his body, pressed a kiss to his lips, then wrapped his arms around Clint’s waist. Clint slumped into his arms, his forehead pressed against Phil’s shoulder, trying to find breath and rational thought again.

He kind of wanted to apologize for not warning him he was about to come, but then he also felt maybe it was Phil who should be apologizing, because no one could be looked at like that and not lose it completely.

Phil’s fingers danced up his spine and Clint couldn’t help but flinch when they found the edge of the gash between his shoulder blades.

Phil immediately stilled, then stepped back. “You okay?”

Clint felt dopey and stoned, but also a little sore and suddenly completely exhausted. “Yeah.” He leaned forward until he could press their lips together. “Still a little banged up though.”

Phil gently guided him to the bed, pulling Clint’s shirt off before tipping him back on the sheets. He followed that up by undoing his shoes for him, then wriggling his pants the rest of the way down and tossing them aside.

Clint suddenly became uncomfortably aware that he was naked and wallowing in post-orgasmic bliss while Phil stood, fully dressed and still hard. “C’mere,” he slurred, reaching out towards his tempting waist. Phil smiled indulgently and bent forward crawling over Clint’s sprawled body. “Let me -” Clint started fumbling with the button on his pants, but Phil stopped him with a hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Hold on,” Phil whispered. He stood again, then started to strip off his clothes. Clint watched, eyes blinking half closed, like a happy cat. He could feel his smile getting silly, but he couldn’t reel it in. Phil was _here,_ in his room, getting naked. And he hadn’t even been hit with some kind of alien horniness dust or been told he had two weeks to live or something.

Once naked as well, Phil crawled forward again, then tucked himself up next to Clint on the bed. Clint immediately set to work memorizing his whole body with his hands. Thighs to his belly to his chest to his face, he ran hungry palms over every inch of skin he could reach. Phil’s eyes drifted closed, just letting Clint explore, a sweet smile teasing the edges of his lips.

Clint kissed them, just because he could.

His touch slipped down further, but before he could finally get his hands on that glorious cock, Phil stopped him again.

“Phiiiil,” he whined.

Phil chuckled. “Just indulge me.”

“You okay?” Clint asked gently, suddenly worried that despite sucking Clint down like it was his civic duty, he might be uncomfortable with this.

“Of course.” Phil sounded confident. “I’m just enjoying this part.” There was the hint of laughter in his voice, and Clint didn’t get the joke. He furrowed his eyebrows and glared at Phil suspiciously.

He laughed in response and pulled him close again. “Shhh,” he whispered, then rolled Clint onto his other side. He kissed his cheek, neck, shoulder, then curled around behind him so they were spooned together, his arm wrapped around Clint’s waist, face buried in his hair. It was warm and safe and so perfect.

**

Clint didn’t think he’d fallen asleep, but he suddenly jerked awake, so he must have. Phil had tricked him into falling asleep, damn him.

Luckily Phil was still there behind him and his hand had drifted lower to lazily pet the crease of Clint’s hip. He could feel hot breath tickling the back of his neck and it sent a shiver down his spine. The shiver ended somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach and a rush of blood followed it south, soon after.

Phil shifted a bit and Clint could feel his erection pressed, hot and needy, against his ass. He threaded his fingers through Phil’s, guiding them lower until they wrapped around the base of his rapidly hardening cock. He arched back a little, pressing his ass against Phil.

He turned his head to the side, Phil’s breath drifting from his neck to his cheek. _“Whatever you want,”_ he repeated, grinding his hips back to make his meaning clear. He felt Phil suck in a sharp breath against his neck, his own hips joining the slow, rolling rhythm Clint set.

“Yeah,” Phil breathed out, his interest in never-ending foreplay seemingly evaporated now that Clint had napped, however briefly. “Do you have - ?” He cut off when Clint pressed back again.

“Top drawer.”

There was a rustling behind him, and he mourned the loss of Phil’s hand. Then it was back, slick now and teasing around the back of his thighs. Clint tipped one knee up off the bed. Phil’s hand snaked between his legs to wrap around his cock again, the smooth slide of his warm, slippery hand drawing Clint back into a haze of pleasure.

Too soon Phil let go, but then his fingers worked their way back. Clint gasped when he teased his hole then slipped a finger inside him.

“You okay?” Phil asked, more than a little breathless.

 _“So_ okay,” Clint groaned back. “You don’t have to take your time. I want you so badly.”

Phil moaned, teeth nipping the back of Clint’s neck and he started fingering him with more urgency. When Clint couldn’t take it anymore he reached behind him and wrapped his hand around Phil’s cock, stroking it a few times, then arched his back. “Please fuck me,” he begged.

The fingers disappeared again and Clint squirmed at the loss of sensation, feeling empty and abandoned. But then Phil was back, condom on and slicked up. He pressed forward eagerly, breath coming out in little gasps, and Clint thrilled at the thought that he could so utterly destroy Phil’s unshakable cool.

Phil pressed in slowly and carefully, but the white-knuckled hand bruising Clint’s thigh gave away his desperation and when Clint arched back into him, his hips kicked forward and punched a groan out of Clint.

“Yeah, like that, fuck. _Phil.”_

“Oh god, Clint, you feel so good.” Hearing Phil whisper his name in that wrecked voice was so incredible Clint wanted to laugh or sing, or something equally Disney. He’d been surviving on a few choice memories over the last few months. He never thought the next time he’d hear it would be while getting fucked into his SHIELD-issued sheets.

He reached back and grabbed Phil’s hip, tipping them forward so he was more on his stomach, giving Phil a better angle. Phil took the hint and began thrusting into him harder, his hand coming back to wrap around Clint’s cock again. The double sensation was incredible and despite his earlier orgasm, Clint was quickly building towards another one.

Phil was clearly close too, pushing Clint harder into the sheets until Clint had to brace a knee against the mattress to keep enough space for Phil to keep jacking him off. As much as he enjoyed being fucked silly, Phil’s hand was doing such incredible things to him, he never wanted it to end.

And then Phil started making desperate little noises into Clint’s shoulder and suddenly all he wanted was to hear him come, feel him coming inside him. “Please come for me, come for me Phil, don’t stop, come for me,” he panted out. Phil’s grip tightened around his cock, then twisted and Clint cried out, fisting his hands in the sheets as he came for the second time.

Phil wasn’t far behind, thrusting desperately and without rhythm until he arched forward and groaned out Clint’s name, flush against him from head to toe, coming hard, buried deep inside him.

Clint felt utterly wrung out, mind flying high and completely out of control of his own body. He was a puddle, gasping breath off the edge of his pillow. Phil lay still against him for a long time, then those amazing fingers started to pet again, tracing gently around the edge of his fresh wound, along his back, over his hips.

Phil’s warmth disappeared briefly and then he swiped at Clint with...something - maybe a t-shirt, Clint didn’t have the energy to turn and look - then pulled the blanket up over both of them. He curled up against Clint’s side, knee bent over the back of his thighs. Clint reached out and threaded their hands together, pulling Phil’s arm under his so he could cuddle it like a security blanket.

“Clint?” Phil whispered.

“Mmm?”

“I have to get up early. I won’t wake you, though.”

Clint just pulled him closer, already too asleep to form words, but protesting weakly the vague idea of Phil not being there. Phil pressed a series of soft kisses along his jaw. Sometime between gentle lips on his neck and his ear, he drifted off to sleep again.

**

Clint woke up alone to a blinking light on his phone. He turned it over and grimaced.

_Meet me at my office._

There was something awfully ominous about that. It could be, “Hey, Babe, come to my office for a quickie,” but it could also, just as easily, be “Agent Barton, report for dumping at 0700.” They’d kind of been caught up in confessions and that special We Didn’t Die thrill; Phil could definitely be regretting it now.

He stretched out to find he was surprisingly sore - half from the casino and half from more enjoyable activities. He popped an Advil before he limped out of bed, his blinking phone a constant reminder of where he needed to be. He showered and dressed as slowly as possible, putting off finding out, but finally he couldn’t take the unease anymore and marched off down the hall.

His gift for procrastination led him to Natasha’s room in Medical first but she was fast asleep and snoring gently so he didn’t stay long. The IVs were out and the bandage around her thigh was clean and white. She had the colour in her cheeks back.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding since he heard that gunshot ring out. He reached out and touched her hair gently, then pressed a barely-there kiss to her forehead, knowing how easily she could be woken in a strange environment, but needing to reassure himself that she was here and okay.

When she offered no other distraction, he was forced make his way to the elevators and then down the hall to Phil’s office.

He flung open the office door, going for cocky, if nothing else, and was met with such a glowing smile that all his worries fluttered away. He was left with an embarrassingly fuzzy feeling somewhere down in his gut.

“Morning, Sir.” He grinned and Phil rolled his eyes affectionately then stood and slid out from behind his desk. He walked right past Clint, whose hands twitched at his sides, wanting to touch. Phil shut the door, then turned back and crowded up into Clint’s space, kissing him thoroughly.

Clint ran eager hands up the back of his shirt, under his suit jacket, and nipped at his lips. Phil hummed against his mouth and Clint laughed. “Isn’t there some kind of regulation against this?”

“Like that’s ever stopped you.” Phil shifted his hips a bit and Clint groaned quietly.

“Stops you all the time, though.” Clint sucked Phil’s lower lip in between his own and pulled their bodies even closer together. Phil kissed him back, then smiled and pulled away gently. “I didn’t mean it!” Clint hooked two fingers in Phil’s belt loops. “Don’t stop.”

Phil laughed, didn't move any further away, but didn’t lean back in. “I have to talk to you about something.”

“Oh shit.”

He laughed again. “It’s not bad, sit down.”

Clint released Phil’s belt loops and sat down heavily. Phil leaned against his desk, kicking out his feel next to Clint’s chair. Clint slowly slid his foot across the floor until he could wrap his ankle around the other man’s. Phil ignored him.

“I have an idea. It would involve you transferring again, but we’d have to tell Fury about this.” He gestured between them.

“Back onto your team?” Clint practically bounced in his chair. “Fuck yeah.”

Phil’s lips twitched. “You’re not happy with Sitwell?”

“He doesn't think I’m funny.”

“Smart man.”

“Well, fuck you too, Sir.”

“Only if you ask nicely.” Phil’s eyes flickered over to his and Clint swallowed heavily, the low rumble in Phil’s voice shooting straight south to his dick.

“Holy shit, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. This office has a lock, right?”

Phil snapped his fingers. “Clint, focus for a second. Fury. New plan.”

“Right. Fury. Always a boner-killer. Go on.”

Contrary to his efforts to get the conversation on track, Phil reached out and ran a hand through Clint’s hair. Clint would have purred if he could. It seemed he’d finally cracked Phil’s spook-shell for good.

“I would quit running the team,” he began. “Garcia and Jones are already being shifted around, it’s a good time to reorganize things. I want to propose to Fury that you become a floater specialist, instead of a member of any team in particular. You’d work with whichever team wanted you, on whichever ops needed your skills.”

“Like the mission at the club?”

“Exactly. But that was just a fluke. This would be permanent.” Phil paused.

“And?”

“And I would be your handler, yours alone. It would turn my intense desire to keep you alive into an asset.”

Clint grinned and stood, pulling Phil back against him and tipping their foreheads together. “Sounds like a dream come true, Sir.”

**

Clint shifted around a little, trying to get comfortable - or at least as comfortable as possible lying on his stomach, on a rooftop in 104-degree heat. His shirt had ridden up at some point and exposed a thin strip of bare skin above his waistline that was beginning to sizzle in the relentless desert sun. This rooftop was hot and scratchy and he could feel the rough edges of the gravel even through his clothes. He adjusted again, trying to take some weight off his elbows.

He scraped his rifle along with him as he squirmed about, fiddling with the safety switch.

“Barton,” Phil’s voice snapped out. “Will you stop shuffling?”

“Easy for you to say, tucked up in the air conditioned van. You probably have snacks and shit. Do you know how hot it is up here?”

“Do you think, for once in your life, you could do as I say without talking back?” He sounded snippy, but Clint knew it was all an act. The sap probably just missed hearing the sound of his beloved sniper’s voice. Clint shifted again and felt his tac belt dig into the dark bruise Phil had sucked into his hip the night before, tangled in sweaty sheets in their cheap hotel room. It was SHIELD’s worst kept secret that Agent Coulson and his asset only booked one room for out-of-town ops.

And that you _really_ didn’t want the room next to theirs.

“That’s probably not ever going to happen, _Sir.”_ He let the word drip with _“Phil” and “yes” and “mine”_ and he could hear the little hitch of Coulson’s breath over the comm. Clint could feel the smile in it from 200 yards away. He grinned back.

“Oh, shut up, Clint,” Phil grumbled.

Yeah, they were pretty much all favourite missions now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
